Beautiful Dreamers
by Jay Rease
Summary: Quinn is even gorgeous when she's sleeping; and this time, Santana is dreaming with her eyes wide open.


Title: Beautiful Dreamers

Spoilers: None really… but this happened after the finale.

Author: J Rease

Rating: M/NC-17

Warning: Non-consensual sleep sex!, smut, underage drinking. More smut.

Summary: Quinn is even gorgeous when she's sleeping; and this time, Santana is dreaming with her eyes wide open.

Author's Note: Prompt fill. Sent by a reader:

Quinntana sleepsex! Fic. Prefer angst; but please include smut. Santana (as the aggressor) has Quinn at her mercy; and she snatches the opportunity. Quinn can wake up, stay asleep the entire time, participate while sleeping, or participate while awake (your choice). I'd prefer the outcome being somewhat happy—extra cookies if Santana is remorseful and has an "I think I like Quinn" epiphany.

All mistakes are mine. No grammatical beta yet. Best thing I could come up with since I'm creatively drained right now.

I can be lyrically salacious and erotically verbose at times, hopefully my wordy nature doesn't ruin this fic. Please review.

**Beautiful Dreamers**

She was straddling her chair, her thighs spread open around the back, arms crossed under her chin and she was focusing all of her attention at the beautiful scene _unleashed_ on her queen sized throne. Her ebony bedspread cushioned the porcelain skin and contrasted shockingly against the blonde tresses haloed on her plush pillowcases. She was in **awe**. The fact that the blonde was drooling on her clean pillows and slightly snoring was irrelevant at the moment. She was declaring the sin on her sheets a tantalizing invitation.

But she stayed in her seat.

She was burning up with the central air on and she didn't know what would cool the burn. She shifted, wondering when she got this **_drunk_** or why Quinn was sprawled on her bed in her impossibly short shorts and ever rising tank top. She couldn't tell if the flush goose-bumping her skin was from her feverish thoughts; or from the liquor thinning her blood.

Shaking her head only made her dizzy, so she breathed and exhaled and slumped over the edge of the chair. She was so conflicted. Quinn had shown up at her house half a day ago, liquor wrapped in brown paper bags and duffle thrown over her shoulder. Her sunglasses were exaggerated against her petite face, and she floated around her kitchen looking for ice and glasses. Her father wasn't home, as usual, so Quinn handed her a few items and made her way to her bedroom.

Beth was one year old. And Quinn had shown up needing to forget about everything. _And there wasn't a party in town._ They watched movies and listened to music. And when it got quiet they talked; they stared at the ceiling and pretended that the room was empty. They cried a little for different things, and reacquainted themselves with this easy familiarity. **_Them_**. They hadn't been there for each other in so long; competition stripping them of their confidence and pitting them against each other.

They cried for a while, together—laughed at the absurdity of it all; and giggled drunkenly past their problems. And then they drank some more. When she her asked how she got the drinks, Quinn smiled and giggled her way through her explanation. **_"Pretty girls can get anything they want in Lima..."_** And she bit her lip in that not so innocent way, and she found herself lost for a witty rebuttal. When she caught her breath, hidden in her chest, she choked out a quick **_"Can't argue with that_**" and let the room thicken with the insinuations. They lay back on her bed and watched Jennifer's Body, toying with each other's fingers absentmindedly, or tracing patterns in each other's scalp. She got up to use the bathroom, and came back to Quinn like this. And she took the time to admire the blonde.

She savored every inch; the need thrumming through her veins on loud—and she was aching to canvass the smooth skin she knew she would find on Quinn's thighs. But Quinn hadn't woken up when she shook her, or when she called her name. She only bounced when she jumped on the bed; and didn't even wince when she poked her. And all she had left was unresolved sexual tension to keep her company; that and an entire bottle of liquor on the floor.

Quinn usually crossed her mind in spite. She was competition. Everything **she** ever wanted, Quinn got _handed_ to her. Like Quinn was entitled. She was Santana Lopez; for Pete's sake. But when there was nothing left to fight for, and her paranoia calmed down—she loved being around Quinn. They fit in ways that went unspoken, and the ease was intensifying all the things she hadn't noticed when they were forced to fight for the same crown. Quinn Fabray had potential to shake her entire foundation.

And she wouldn't mind it one bit if she did.

But here, pissy drunk on her Egyptian cotton sheets, the salt of Quinn's sweat stained her bed with evidence that she'd been in it; even if Quinn was in it for different reasons in **_her_** overactive mind. Even if her shaking thighs were quivering around the back of this chair she was straddling—all she wanted to do was put her hands in places she hadn't before. She thinks she'd ruin her panties if she could put her mouth in places that hadn't been tasted. What she _wanted_ to do to the blonde. What she **_could_** do if Quinn just _let_ her. It was getting harder not to join her on that bed. She turned off her lights and crawled onto it. She got as close to her as she could without touching. She felt like any skin to skin contact would result in her heart exploding in her chest. But she was awfully close to the sleeping girl, leaning above her.

Quinn sighed in her sleep but didn't stir, the hot air touching her neck feather lightly and sitting on that spot like it couldn't dissipate. Quinn's tank top was rolling up her torso as the blonde moved, accommodating for less space on the large bed. She settled, sleeping soundly on her back on the other edge of the bed opposite of where she herself was curled up; on her side and staring intently at the movement in the semi dark room. When the snoring resumed, her hand snaked out to flatten over taut muscles, Quinn's clammy abdomen was hot against her own wet palms; the rise and fall of her chest outlined from the light coming from the television set. Touching her skin felt like a shock to her senses. No one's skin could feel that soft. No one's flesh could feel that good against her own.

She scooted closer to her, if possible, and began to rub her stomach languidly. Quinn moaned contently in her sleep, her eyes still closed, her mouth only parting to let the sound pass in her slumber. She let her fingertips graze the undersides of Quinn's breasts, her shaky breaths drying out the skin of her lips and hitching when Quinn finally arches into her touch. Her heart is sledgehammering in her ears, and she can't control the panting breaths that she feels are too loud for the dark. The urge to continue was outweighing the nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her that this was a mistake. She should stop. She's a little too drunk and this is all kinds of wrong. But her hands continue their journey, negating all of her objections and rounding over the swell of Quinn's breast. She cups it in her hand, and she rolls her palm over the responding nipple. Quinn's skin is hot, and she feels the cackle of tension enveloping them. **_Them_**. The possibilities were endless. She had to rub her thighs together to satiate the ache. Her eyes dart quickly between Quinn's face and her aroused nipples.

She wants to put it in her mouth. But she pacifies the thought when her nipple peaks and presses into her open palm. She expects to look into Quinn's face and see hazel eyes shocked and wide and **open**—but Quinn is so asleep she probably won't remember any of this in the morning. So she presses her mouth to Quinn's. Slowly. And she sticks her tongue out and drags it across Quinn's bottom lip. She lives in glory when Quinn's shallow inhale intakes on reflex. She tastes the liquor on her lips, and fruit flavored gloss, and something different she can't place. She puckers her lips against hers and cups her breast in her curious hand. And she pulls back immediately when Quinn starts kissing her back.

Her eyes are thankfully still closed.

She's responding to her but she's out cold. She lifts Quinn's arm to watch it fall immediately to the bed, unhindered by conscious thought. She has to lick her lips repeatedly to get rid of the cotton mouth she currently has; and probably to build up her nerves. She leans in to kiss Quinn's neck, and she's trailing kisses down her jawline. Her hand is edging into the waistband of Quinn's shorts. She stares directly into her sleeping face as the tips of her fingers disappear beneath fabric and brush across fine curls. She trails downward, sucking on her pulse point as she slips her hand down to where it wants to go.

Quinn's clit is extremely engorged.

She swipes downward, relishing in the wet she finds there. She feels like she's getting away with **murder**, but Quinn's hips are rocking into her hand, and she's getting turned on at the response she's getting from the girl who is completely asleep beside her. She dips her finger lower again, before swirling it over the blonde's exposed clit. Quinn is making noises from the back of her throat, and the dream she is having must be doing a good job of correlating with what she's feeling. It has to be believable enough to get her off like this in real time.

She is lightly circling the bundle of nerves, her fingertips slipping over Quinn's clitoris like it was never there, and ghosting over it again before one of those marvelous grunts can make it to the tip of Quinn's tongue. She is starting to feel the thumping wet between her own thighs. And her breaths are erratic and Quinn is somehow still sleeping; and all she wants to do is slip a couple fingers into the girl writhing beneath her—but she's not sure if the blonde would be broken from her erotic dreams. She presses the very tip of her finger to her opening; her hand is cramped from the material of Quinn's shorts restricting against her. She presses a little deeper. All she wants to do is just let her finger slip inside… she needs to feel the girl gripping around her-

Hands are pushing her away. There is a flurry of movement and a snap of stretchable fabric bending back toward Quinn's body as she rolls and pushes away from the bed. Away from her. Quinn grabs the sheet she was on, and grips it tighter to her body. She watches the blonde clumsily fall backward and wobble over to the light switch by her door. She's shaking and her face is burning red.

Her eyes are low and she can tell that she's still very drunk.

"What the _HELL_, Santana? That is **NOT** cool!"

Quinn's words were slurring but the anger and confusion was unmistakable on her face. Her chest was rising and falling like thunderclaps in the stuffy room. She can't think of anything to say that will assuage the look on Quinn's face. She opens her mouth to speak, repeatedly—and closes it each time after, not sure of what to say. She rubs her face and instantly inhales the heady remnants Quinn left on her drying fingers.

"I…I.."

Quinn was chewing the inside of her cheek, gripping the sheet to her body. Her hair was askew, and her tank top is disheveled. She bit her own lip then, crossing her arms and pushing strands of hair behind her ear. She knew her eyes were shifting around the room, trying to avert her gaze from synching with the blondes.

She didn't know what to say.

Quinn came closer to her, and she took a hesitant step back.

"You _what_, Santana?"

She had no words to say out loud. She ducked her head slightly and tried to pass off the flush of arousal for something akin to shame. Quinn was looking into her face unabashedly. She was leaning into her personal space, and staring directly into her eyes. She sat there under the scrutiny, trying to prepare for Quinn's next move. She knew she should feel shitty, embarrassed even. But she couldn't deny that she liked touching Quinn, feeling Quinn. Quinn was fuming.

"**_You disgust me, Santana_**."

Quinn's inebriation only added venom to the comment. Her face was ripe with indignation, her features downcast and upturned as if Santana's behavior was actually repugnant enough to smell. Quinn circled her once, lazily bringing her dainty hand to her hip, the sheet cascading over her side; her eyes shutting slowly— staying closed too long to be considered a blink. She was kind of hurt that Quinn was denying that it felt good. Santana frowned at her.

"It didn't feel that way to me, sweetness…" She wiggled her fingers proudly in front of her face.

She let the comment hang in the air, and watched as Quinn jerked away from her, offended.

"Oh wh-whatever, Santana, I was _sleeping_. You took advantage of the—"

Santana took a step closer to her, a little bit bolder.

"…of the wet dream you were having about me? Seems to me I was getting you **moist** in all types of scenarios…"

Quinn's eyes shut to slits.

"Oh that's just bull Santana, and you know it—don't try to turn this around on me like what you were doing wasn't shady. Don't be such a—"

All she could think to do was kiss her. She had to stop the words from coming out of Quinn's mouth so she did the only thing that came to mind. She interrupted Quinn's sentence and stole her tongue away into her mouth. Quinn had started to pull away, but she kept her still by her hands pressing to the blonde's cheeks. Soon, Quinn started to respond. She was kissing Quinn Fabray, who was slowly melting into her embrace. They were pissy drunk, and passionately making out in the middle of her bedroom. She wasn't sure how far Quinn would let her take this, but the way the girl was gripping at her sides and biting her bottom lip gave a big indication that something was about to happen.

Quinn finally let the sheet she was still holding fall to the ground. She turned the blonde around and lead her to her bed, not caring about the slightly heavy thump they made falling back onto it. She had her hands in Quinn's hair, tugging and gripping at it accordingly. Quinn was clumsily pulling at the edge of Santana's shirt, trying to pull it over her head. When she finally pulled it over, Quinn began kissing down her neck. It was hot, and erotic—the sloppy, open mouth kisses felt like lava on her skin. She pulled Quinn's hands above her head, and settled in between her bent knees. She held Quinn's wrists between her own hands, and began thrusting her hips into the girl underneath her. She was rolling her hips and watching the girl beneath her close her eyes and bite the corner of her mouth.

She didn't want to tease. She didn't want to work up to anything—she needed to know what the girl tasted like before it drove her insane. She let Quinn's hands drop and ignored the whimper from the loss of contact. She lumbered down her body and pulled off her bottoms in an almost fluid motion. Quinn was quiet; panting silently as she lay half nude in front of her. She began kissing down Quinn's hip, her hand bold enough to cup her sex. It was slick, and delicious looking parts of her were swollen. She trailed kisses down her pubic bone and settled over the bundle of nerves waiting to be attended to. She looked up at Quinn, the blonde nodded shyly down at her.

She plunged her tongue into the girl's sex, and traced patterns across her clit. Quinn was quiet, the sounds were coming out as drunken noises, chokes and whimpers unintelligently stringing together the most erotic sounds Santana had ever heard. She was squeezing her thighs, rubbing all the right things in tandem with the rhythm she'd created with her tongue. She pushed her finger into Quinn, enjoying the throaty moan that climbed out of her mouth. She rejoiced when she felt he tight muscles grip at her finger hungrily. She began pumping into her, rocking on her hips against the bed in a furious pace. Quinn was keening into her, her body jerking and shaking against the assault. She was flicking her tongue all over her sex—nipping and kissing and sucking. Quinn began bucking into her mouth, and Santana didn't know how much longer she could grind against the bed without creaming her panties.

It didn't take long for both of them to shudder through their orgasms.

They lay exhausted on her bed, the air clawing out of their lungs was loud and noisy in the room; Jennifer's Body back on the title screen of the Netflix menu. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what that was… she just wanted Quinn to avoid blaming it on the liquor. The room got too quiet, quickly.

"The next time you want to do **_that_**… make sure I'm awake for the foreplay…"

All Santana could do was smile.


End file.
